


This Cursed Flesh

by underthenorthstar



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Animal Transformation, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cursed Ubbe, Curses, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Ubbe went against Ivar and the gods punished him, Werewolves, werewolf ubbe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthenorthstar/pseuds/underthenorthstar
Summary: Ubbe rebelled against Ivar, and the gods cursed him for it. Forced to transform every full moon into the beast he had tried to deny, Ubbe now must suffer his new, monstrous second life.A series of interconnected one shots chronicling the life of  Ubbe the Werewolf and his mate, You.





	1. Full Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One: You, Ubbe's mate, comfort him on his Wolf Night as his transformation approaches.

“Sing me a song.”

His voice is harried, anxious. It’s usual honeyed timbre is gone, replaced with the inevitable.

“What would you like to hear, my love?” Your hands stroke his fevered brow, slip through his unbound hair. 

“Anything. I should like to hear your voice one last time.” His eyes shut briefly, and his teeth clench together. The spasm rocks his body like a boat tossed on the merciless sea. Closer together now, barely a few minutes apart. 

“I wish you would not use such language,” you chide once he has relaxed. His head cradled in your lap, body curled like a wounded dog. “Always fretting, always thinking the worst.”

“And you live life as though Odin himself guards you,” he gasps as another spasm wracks through him. So close. It will not be long now. 

“And why not?” You do not want to grow upset, not in this moment. But it is like running in circles. “He would not have given me you if he did not protect me.”

His eyes blaze. So easily angered during these times. “I should have torn your throat out when I saw you in that clearing. How you torment me! It was better when I was alone, when I did not have a heart.”

You press your lips to his temple. “You do not mean that, my love. You were lonely. You cried every night, howling your misery to the stars above. I heard you in my dreams. That is why I came to you. You called to the gods, they showed mercy and answered.”

Another harsh cry, and the sound of bone grating. “They cursed me! As if I had not been punished enough! Now I have the fear of losing you sunk into my hide. What if I do what I fear most? What if I crush you, tear you, smear you across the forest like foam upon the sea? How I will howl then!”

You sigh, a soft exhale against the gust of his bitterness. It is always like this, right before. You know after it is over he will come to you, naked and contrite, wailing apologies and spouting a fountain of love. You will let him take you on the bank of the river, in your hut, in the clearing where you first gave yourself to him. He will mark you, claim you, steep his love so deep within you until you can no longer tell where his heart ends and yours begins. Bound together, as the gods intended. 

“I am yours, as you are mine,” you say firmly. “If that was not in your heart, you would have done these things you speak of long ago.” 

“I should have not done what I did,” he wails, the anger replaced with sorrow. “I betrayed the god’s chosen, and how I have paid for it.”

“Hush now, my love. It is almost time,” you turn his face towards you. His eyes are fading, he will soon not know you. “Let me kiss your lips and sing you a song.”

His mouth his hot under yours; he kisses you like he will never do so again. Hungry, devouring, all consuming. He does not need to say it with words. You know his love for you is true. 

You are not afraid. You never have been. 

One last kiss, and you release him from your arms. You would stay close, but you know he wants you by the door. So you stand with one hand on the latch, and the other laid over your heart. And you begin to sing. 

Your voice rings through the room, rising and falling like rolling hills across the horizon. A song of love, of protection, of favour. He closes his eyes, and for a brief second he looks at peace. 

But then he goes rigid, and everything begins to change. 

He howls and shrieks and claws at his splitting skin. It pulls and breaks and weaves back together, stretching tight over cracking bones. His nails shatter as the weapons hidden beneath break the surface. His jaw unhinges and his teeth lengthen and his shiny skin sprouts thick, coarse hair. All the while he lets out ear splitting screams, drowning out the sound of your song. 

You don’t stop singing, not even when his loving blue eyes become dark and without recognition. You don’t stop when everything is complete and his howl at the moon is one of blood and death and ancient grief. You don’t stop when he pulls his chains tight, gaping mouth with shiny sharp teeth mere inches from your face. 

You finish your song, as you always do. You finish and you look straight into his face, into the face of your wolf, your Ubbe, your love.

Cursed. Cast out. Not fully a man nor fully an animal. But not alone. Not anymore. 

“I will see you soon,” you say, as he strains to reach you, to sink his teeth into your neck. Your hand on your heart strays to your belly. “Be at peace, love. The night’s torment will end with good news.”

Your retreating footsteps echo in time with his parting howl, and the moon smiles down upon its cursed children.


	2. A Monster is Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of Ubbe's second life is lonely, horrible, and drenched in blood. He begs the gods for a little reprieve from the madness, and they choose to grant it.

Lagertha falls and Kattegat burns.

Not literally, of course. The buildings and structures remain intact. But the old Kattegat, the Kattegat of Ragnar’s days, is no more. Ivar’s hellfire burns it all to smoke and ashes. A new era, a new dawn. Blood red and reeking of death.

Ubbe is tried. He kneels in chains before his brother and is declared traitor. He expects death, vengeance, no mercy. But Ivar spares him. He banishes him to the edge of town, to the dark forest. He takes his wife and his title and his wealth as a son of Ragnar, but he does not kill him. Ubbe wishes he had. 

For what has happened to him since has been far, far worse than the bite and tear of any blade. 

The first time it happens, he thinks he has gone mad. He wakes in the night to immense pain, to the sound of skin ripping and tearing. Everything in his body is stretching and pulling and shifting. He cries and groans and thrashes, heart hammering a mad tattoo within his chest. Thick, dark fur sprouts up along his once smooth skin, and he tries to pull it out. But his fingers have become claws, and they sink into him. He screams in pain, and it sounds like a pack of wolves in his ears. 

He does not know what he does that night. All he knows is in the morning, he is lying naked deep in the forest, covered in sticky, fresh blood. He does not know if it is his own. He wants to believe that the night has been a dream, that it had not been real. But he can’t. The metallic taste in his mouth tells him otherwise.   
He cries himself to sleep right there, beneath the whispering pines. And he dreams.

 

In his dreams, he is standing in the Great Hall, before the throne. But Ivar does not sit upon it. An old man does instead, grizzled and grey, one eye covered in a dark patch. He regards Ubbe with an almost sad expression. 

 

“Son of Ragnar,” His voice is old and young, joyful and sad, blessing and curse. “You have defied the gods, defied our chosen one. You have denied the beast within you, the true Viking you were born to be. And so that beast will live with you always, and you will be a slave to it. Ubbe you once were, and the Wolf you shall now be.”

He wakes in a cold sweat, fear settled deep within his belly. There is no escape from this. He is the Wolf, and the Wolf is him.

And so, the second life of Ubbe Ragnarsson begins. 

He is only the monster outwardly when the moon is full, but he is forever changed. He hungers for raw flesh. He lusts for violence and blood like he never has before. He burns hot, hot, hot, never cooling. He is restless, roaming the forest in nothing but his breeches, even when the snows come. He looks at the moon and curses it, dreading for the night it becomes round and full. 

And when that moon does rise, he descends into chaos and madness. Every time, he suffers in miserably agony as his body becomes not his own. Every time, he knows not what he does, or who he kills. Every time, he wakes naked and bloody, covered in new scars on both his body and heart. He thinks he must claw himself, trying to pry himself out of the monstrous shell he’s trapped in. He does not clean the wounds. He deserves them. He deserves this.

In time, he develops a strategy. He moves his hut further into the forest. He steals heavy chains from the harbour, and locks himself up when his night comes upon him. He boards the doors and windows. He even fashions a muzzle, to keep his jaws shut. It works, to a degree. He no longer can rampage on his Wolf Night. But it does not fix the ache in his chest, the shame of his deeds, or the crushing loneliness of his burden. He finds himself praying to the same gods who handed him this sentence. He knows they will never take it away, but he begs for a reprieve. For something that will make the madness more tolerable. For a balm to ease his shredded heart. 

A year after his first full moon, they answer. 

The Wolf Night has just passed, and he has unchained himself. To clear his head, he walks through the forest. It is a clear, lovely day. The birds sing, the wind whistles, the trees sway. He could almost feel hope and peace, on a day like today. And that is when he smells you. 

It’s a light scent, something soft and gentle, but it hits him like a pommel to the gut. He feels a sudden longing tear through him, and he wants to wrap himself in that smell, feel it sink into his skin. Without even thinking, he follows it, towards his clearing of pine trees.

It grows richer and stronger until he can barely stand it. It calls to him, urges him on. Come find me. Make me yours, for that is what I am. My wolf, my Ubbe, my cursed love.

When he steps into the clearing, he nearly falls to his knees. 

There you are. A gift, a treasure, a lifeline. He knows it the instant he sees you, and he has never seen anything more beautiful. You are his. You have come to rescue him, to give him a little light in his suffocating darkness. His heart thumps with foreign joy. He has prayed and his tormentors have granted him this boon.   
You watch him with a calm peace, arms outstretched and palms up. Open. Inviting. Unafraid. 

“Ubbe,” your voice is like a healing balm, and he eagerly lets it wash over him. “I am here now. It is alright.” You take a step towards him, and his muscles tremble with the urge to run towards you, to take you in his arms, to put his hands all over your skin. “My dreams have led me here, and I want nothing more than to feel my arms around you.”

He should have questions, but he doesn’t. All he knows is he will love you until he is no longer breathing. There is nothing else, and there never will be.   
“Come now, my wolf,” you take another step, steady and sure. “Come to me. Let me love you, let me be yours. So it was said to me, and so it shall be.”

He breaks instantly. But then again, he always was weak. 

You feel like springtime, you taste like a fresh summer rain. He lets go of everything that haunts him and gives himself over to his instincts. He knows nothing but your skin beneath his hands and your mouth upon his. He gives and he takes and you meet him in every way, whispers and soft cries of “mine, mine, mine,” mingling between kisses and gasps. His teeth leave marks but they don’t hurt him like the others do. Instead, he roars in triumph. Marked. Claimed. His. 

Later, when he tucks you gently beside him in his bed, he will worry about what this could mean. What caring for another person will do it him. What it could do to you. But for now, as you relax beside him on the forest floor, he does not think of these things. He pulls you close, kisses your hair, revels in the contented sigh that leaves you. In this moment, he will be happy. In this moment, the beast is quiet. In this moment, he will treasure the gift that has been given to him. 

For every wolf, even a cursed one, must have his mate.


End file.
